


Take the Dead Out of Me

by AZombieWrites (EgorStandish)



Category: Crossing Lines
Genre: Angst, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 01:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgorStandish/pseuds/AZombieWrites
Summary: Caught and tortured by a maniac who enjoys inflicting pain; the story of Inspector Luke Wilkinson's nightmare.





	Take the Dead Out of Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: ** Based on characters created by Edward Allen Bernero.
> 
> **Challenge: ** Written for The Spook_Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2019 on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
> 
> **Prompt: ** Maniac

A harsh slap to the side of his face, Luke Wilkinson woke up. Consciousness regained.

Green eyes opened, gaze stumbling. A dimly lit room. A hulking figure. A glint of steel.

The smell of blood. A smell of rot. Faeces and urine. The distinct odour of death. 

Wilkinson shifted his body. An intense explosion of pain. Unsure of where; everything hurt. He held his breath, afraid to breathe. Lungs empty, his world tilted, a darkening edge. He took a slow shallow breath. Ribs bruised. Cracked or broken. It didn’t matter, the pain just as bad. His chest ached . . .

Head snapping to the left, the blow to the side of his head came as a shock, unexpected. Closed his eyes, vertigo creating a feeling of nausea. The moment passed . . . again. Body tense, muscles tight with anxiety and expectation, Wilkinson waited, uncertain of what would come next. 

Another blow to the head? 

Another slice through flesh? 

Another broken finger? 

More videos of his abductor’s collection of victims, the last viewing lasting almost an hour. A visual representation of their injuries, their emotions, their fear. Their last moment of life. 

Their death.

Each death the same; throat slit from behind. 

Each video, each portrayal of death a warning of what was to become of Inspector Luke Wilkinson. 

Wilkinson continued to wait, his breathing becoming erratic.

Nothing. 

No physical violence. 

No visual torture. 

Turned his head, a slow methodical movement. Gaze searching, he found the man standing close. The face hidden, a bloodied clown mask worn; a clichéd memento of too many horror movies. Black trousers. Black jumper. Eyes so dark . . . The man, Wilkinson’s captor, his keeper, his possible death, stood still, his head tilted as he watched his prisoner, his victim. 

Light reflected off the knife held in his right hand, now clean, Wilkinson’s blood removed from the blade.

The man moved, stepping to Wilkinson’s side. 

Stopped. 

Waited. 

Moved behind Wilkinson.

Wilkinson closed his eyes. 

A last breath as he expected death.

Didn’t think of the pain to come. The fear. Of death. Thought only of family and friends.

A slap across the back of his head, Wilkinson’s body jerked with surprise, a gasp of air released through a clenched jaw. A flash of anger, Wilkinson clenched his fists, knuckles turning white. Tugged at his restraints.

A metal chair his prison, Wilkinson’s wrists tied to its arms with a length of rope. Blood and skin freckled the rope, not all of it Wilkinson’s. Ankles bound to the legs of the chair. As much as he struggled, he couldn’t free himself.

His cell, a large room. A small light bulb hung from the ceiling. No windows. The door always locked. The floor covered in blood, excrement, and urine. A body sat tucked away in a corner near the door, its throat slip, the face beaten beyond recognition.

In the middle of the room, a video camera sat on a tripod, facing Wilkinson, recording everything. Recording every breath. Every emotion. Every reaction to each injury inflicted. A record of Wilkinson’s death; recorded for every future victim. For the next person abducted off a remote road in the south of France. For the next person brought into this room, restrained in this chair . . .

On a work bench, running the length of the room on Wilkinson’s right, sat a large television, a DVD player. A stack of DVDs. Too many victims. 

Every other available space on the work bench . . . cluttered with tools. Knives. Pliers. Hammers. Chisels. Drills. Saws. Screwdrivers. Each tool able to inflict severe pain. To inflict injuries both painful and debilitating. 

A blow to the knee or ankle to hobble a victim. 

A nail hammered into the victim’s side to break bone . . . ribs.

A chisel to remove a finger or toe at the joint.

Too many tools. Too many uses.

Wilkinson already aware of these things, brought into the room hours earlier. Already aware of what the man was capable of, what he was willing to do. Aware of the thing the man enjoyed most; inflicting pain.

Wilkinson shut down his imagination. He didn’t need to think about what could happen . . . what other injuries or pain his captor could or would cause. He needed to think. Needed to think of a way to escape.

He didn’t want to die like this.

He didn’t want to die here. Not in this room.

He didn’t want to die.

The man stepped back into his line of sight, the knife gone, his fists clench. No gloves worn, his knuckles bruised and bloodied, Wilkinson not the cause of every bruise, every cut. 

Muscles tense, Wilkinson tried to prepare . . . the fist caught the side of his face. Balance broken, Wilkinson fell to the side, his weight forcing the chair over. His right shoulder hit the floor, a grunt of pain escaping.

Felt the man kick the back of the chair, Wilkinson’s back feeling the impact, his ribs screaming. Clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, unwilling to give voice to the pain, his abductor wanting a verbal confirmation he’d succeeded in doing what he enjoyed most; causing pain.

A perverse need to cause injury.

Gave Wilkinson no choice . . .

The heel of the man’s boot smashed downward, colliding with Wilkinson’s left ankle.

Wilkinson screamed, the pain too much, too difficult to stay quiet. A natural release. Slow, shallow breaths. A sudden shift, the chair lifted. Upright, nausea rolled through his stomach. He didn’t think the feeling would go away, not this time. Bile rose into his throat. Swallowed, forcing it back down.

Closed his eyes as he continued to breath.

As he continued to live.

For how much longer, Wilkinson didn’t know.

Fingers gripped his short hair, a rough painful grip. Wilkinson’s head pulled back. His throat revealed, more vulnerable. A soft, almost delicate touch, fingers caressing, holding his throat. Could feel the material of the balaclava against the side of his face, hot fetid breath ghosting across his skin.

A deep inhale, the man smelling, touching.

Again, Wilkinson closed his eyes. Waiting.

Waiting for death.

Fingers removed. His head shoved forward. 

Green eyes opened.

The man stepped away, moving across the room toward the work bench. A DVD chosen, he placed it in the DVD player. An automatic start. The sound of a women’s voice . . . sobbing, pleading for her life.

His abductor turned away and moved toward the door. Unlocking it, he opened the door and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

A moment of reprieve.

A moment to consider his options. 

To think of a way to escape . . .

Wilkinson closed his eyes.

He could feel his ankle throbbing with pain. His ribs aching with each painful breath. 

He could hear the woman screaming, the sound polluted.

The screams broke off, an abrupt ending. Replaced by a gurgling sound as she continued to beg for her life. 

Too familiar. His mother often made that sound. Her mouth full of blood after a beating as she tried to apologise to her husband for making him so mad. Always taking the blame, Wilkinson unable to convince her otherwise. Never her fault.

Felt his anger growing.

The woman continued to beg. 

Wilkinson knew he would never beg for his life. It wasn’t in him. Too stubborn to give the man what he wanted. Possible his refusal to beg was the reason he was still alive. Kept in this room for what Wilkinson was sure amounted to hours; some of the victims in the videos killed . . . murdered in a short period of time, others taking longer.

He became silent. Words no longer spoken. He’d attempted that avenue after he’d woken the first time. Expected questions asked.

Who are you?

What do you want?

Why are you doing this?

A silent response the only answer. The man didn’t speak. 

Pulled at his restraints, rope tearing already torn skin. He could feel the warm blood slowly oozing from each wrist. Could feel the dry blood, cracking and flaking away on the side of his face. He could feel his shirt, stuck to his side with dry blood, pull at the open wounds every time he moved.

The first slice through skin and flesh hadn’t hurt. Not at first. The second more painful. The third almost excruciating, a scream torn from his throat. Gaining what he wanted, the man had stopped, Wilkinson grateful.

Until the man broke one of his fingers. 

Lesson quickly learned, Wilkinson screamed, hoping the man would stop at one. He hadn’t. One more finger broken.

A second lesson learned; the man was unpredictable.

His breath caught in his throat when he heard the lock on the door disengaged. It opened, the man stepping into the room, Wilkinson’s police issued weapon held in his right hand.

Wilkinson’s only thought; at least his death would be quick.

The man closed the door. Locked it. Moved further into the room, past Wilkinson, stepping behind him. 

The routine familiar, Wilkinson closed his eyes and waited.

Felt the barrel of the gun, the man pressing it against the back of his head. Increased pressure, his head forced forward. Wilkinson swallowed his fear. A slow, deep painful breath.

Nothing.

The gun still in place. The man waiting for a response, Wilkinson was certain. Refused to respond. Refused to beg for his life, the woman crying in the background. The crying stopped, replaced by her desperate fight to breathe. A sudden end to the noise, her fight for life. Wilkinson knew she was dead. Dead for how long he didn’t know. Was it her stuffed into the corner of the room? He didn’t know.

The trigger pulled, the chamber empty. A loud click. Wilkinson flinched. Relief filled his limbs, body trembling. The man stepped back into his line of sight. Wilkinson watched as he put the clip back into the weapon. Watched as he chambered a round. Closed his eyes when the man moved back out of sight, behind him. 

The barrel placed against the back of his head.

Waited.

A slow breath.

The gun removed.

An explosion of sound, the trigger pulled, the gun fired too close to Wilkinson. So close, he could feel the burn of the bullet across the side of his face, his cheek bursting with pain. Felt a sharp stabbing pain as his right eardrum ruptured, the noise so loud.

Given no time to recover. No time to take a breath . . . Wilkinson watched as the man moved around to face him. Watched as the man plunged a screwdriver into his thigh. Wilkinson screamed, a short abrupt sound. Couldn’t stop himself. 

Saw it coming too late, the man lifted his right foot, kicking forward, the heel of his boot slamming into Wilkinson’s chest. Knocked back, the chair falling a second time, taking Wilkinson with it. Fell onto his back, the back of the chair digging into his ribs, his shoulder blades. Air torn from his lungs, he found it difficult to pull in a breath.

Bit his tongue to stay silent.

The pain in his ear subsided quickly. He could feel something wet and warm trickle from his ear. A sound of ringing. His ear felt thick, full of cotton, his hearing diminished. A sensation of vertigo, the nausea returning. 

His thigh burned with pain. A quick glance. The screwdriver still imbedded in flesh. Could only hope it missed his femoral artery. All hope lost if it didn’t. He would bleed to death quickly, sure that’s not what the man intended.

His chest . . . it felt like another rib broken. Cracked or bruised. It didn’t matter. Wilkinson’s gaze shifted, stumbling along the ceiling, the plaster stained with damp and mildew. 

The chair pulled upright. The man so close, leaning over Wilkinson, his breath fetid and warm against Wilkinson’s skin. The smell of deodorant, a sweet subtle odour. More suited to a woman than a man.

A single word spoken.

‘Beg.’

Wilkinson felt a moment of surprise. The man had never spoken. Not to Wilkinson. Not to his previous victims. The man was frustrated. Running out of patience.

‘Beg for your life.’

His voice was hoarse, throaty. Not what Wilkinson had expected. His accent thick, almost unintelligible. 

Wilkinson become tense, muscles tightening when the man reached for the screwdriver, fingers wrapping around the handle. No other warning, he twisted the screwdriver. Teeth clenched, his jaw aching with the effort, Wilkinson remained silent. Stared back at the man.

‘Beg.’

The screwdriver pulled from his thigh. The man raised his left hand. 

Wilkinson had forgotten about the gun, distracted and in pain.

The trigger pulled.

His aim off, the bullet tore through the side of Wilkinson’s thigh. Ploughed through flesh. Blood splattered across the floor – just more to add to the collection of stains littering the floor – and across Wilkinson’s face.

‘Beg.’

A moment of doubt. Wilkinson began to think begging might be a good idea. Once he begged for his life . . . he would die. It would be over. Energy quickly diminishing, he didn’t think he could do this much longer. Begging may be the only choice he had left.

No more pain.

No more fear.

No.

He couldn’t beg for his life. It wasn’t something he could do. It was something he didn’t want to do. Even if it meant his ordeal would be over. Even though he would suffer more pain through his refusal to beg.

He couldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t do it.

While he was alive, there was a chance of survival. The others. His teammates. His friends. They would be looking for him. Doing everything they could to find him. He thought of Arabela. He didn’t want her to suffer a loss, his death.

No.

While he lived, there was a chance of rescue.

No.

He wouldn’t beg.

Wilkinson stared back at the man’s dark eyes and said, ‘No.’

The gun slammed against the side of Wilkinson’s head.

Consciousness lost.

.  
.  
.

Wilkinson woke up.

His head ached. 

Pain sharp and dull. 

He felt dizzy. 

Nauseated. 

His chest ached, a sharp stabbing pain with each breath.

His ankle throbbed.

His thigh burned with pain.

He felt hot, his skin, his clothes soaked with sweat.

Wilkinson lifted his head, gaze travelling the room. The television was on. A different video. 

Another victim.

Wilkinson snapped his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to watch. He could still hear.

A young child.

A boy.

Screaming and sobbing. Calling for his mother. His father.

Screaming.

Begging for his life.

The sound of death inflicted.

Not long before the darkness returned, the boy’s screams following him into the darkness.

.  
.  
.

Someone screaming as he returned, regaining consciousness.

A man’s voice. Screaming vulgarity. A use of threats. Then only screams of pain.

Wilkinson opened his eyes. He felt confused. Lost.

In front of him, a video camera. A man wearing dark clothing and a clown mask. The man walked away, to Wilkinson’s left, out of sight. Memories tripped and staggered around his brain. He remembered most of it. The rest of it only confused him. Aware of what had happened. Not aware of what was happening.

A scream echoed through the room. 

Not his own voice. He looked toward the television on the workbench. Expected to see a video playing. Expected to see the end of another life. He didn’t expect to see a blank screen. 

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

The voice was real. It was in the present. Not a part of the past. Wilkinson turned his head to the left. Took a moment for it to sink in, for him to accept he was no longer the only victim in the room.

A man sat in a similar chair, his hands and ankles restrained, tied with rope to the arms and legs of the chair. Mid to late forties, hair receding. His face pale . . . bruised and bloody. Eyes pleading, full of fear and desperation, the man stared back at Wilkinson.

Wilkinson looked away. Back at the man in the clown mask. The man turned and walked away toward the door. Unlocked it and left the room, locking the door behind him.

In an American accent, the other man said, ‘What the fuck does that guy want? Why is he doing this?’

Wilkinson thought about it. His memory blurred, much like his vision. Thought he might have a concussion. What did the man in the clown mask want? Looked down. Saw the blood covering the left side of shirt. The blood soaking his left trouser leg. He remembered. A screwdriver and a gun. His gun. He remembered what the man in the clown mask wanted.

‘He wants you to beg.’

‘What the fuck?’

Wilkinson thought about asking the man for his name but that would make it personal, more difficult if the man died in front of him. More difficult to live with if he survived and the other man died.

‘He wants you to beg for your life,’ said Wilkinson.

‘Will he let me go if I do beg,’ said the American.

‘No. He’ll kill you. That’s what he wants. He wants you to beg for your life so he can kill you’.

The other man looked away. ‘And what happens if I don’t beg?’

‘He’ll hurt you until you do.’

It was a simple thing. Beg then die. Don’t beg and suffer more pain. Closing his eyes with an expression of defeat, the American chewed his lower lip until it bled. 

‘I don’t do pain,’ said the American. ‘I never could stand it.’

Wilkinson knew the man would soon die. Just hoped the American wouldn’t die first.

.  
.  
.

It didn’t take long, the American honest. He really couldn’t deal with pain, not long before he was begging for his life. A hammer to his left knee, Wilkinson able to hear the breakage of bone. The American had screamed, quickly begging the man in the clown mask to stop. A knife against his throat, his killer standing behind him, had the American screaming, begging for his life.

A flash of movement, the blade slicing deep, cutting through flesh. Hot blood spurted out across the floor, slowing until it stopped.

Wilkinson closed his eyes. The American’s struggles muted; perforated ear drum more helpful than a hindrance during the moment of the American’s death. 

Footsteps as the killer crossed the room, shoes scraping against the floor. He stopped in front of Wilkinson. Opened his eyes. Reaching forward, the man lifted his left hand. Fingers dripping with blood . . . the American’s blood, he wiped his hand across Wilkinson’s face. 

The blood still warm, a metallic odour, Wilkinson grimaced, the nausea rolling through his stomach. Ran fingers wet with blood through Wilkinson’s hair, tugging and pulling Wilkinson’s head back and forth before letting go, a violent release as he pushed Wilkinson’s head back.

‘Beg.’

‘No.’

The man shifted his stance. 

Shifted his grip on the hammer.

Wilkinson knew what was coming although he wasn’t sure where the hammer would land.

His knee?

His hand or wrist?

Shoulder?

‘Beg.’

‘No.’

He was wrong.

A loss of control, the man angry, frustrated with his victim, he lashed out. 

Quick and violent, the hammer swung toward Wilkinson’s head. Already too many blows to the head, this one could kill him, Wilkinson was sure. It landed, hitting the side of his head, a sickening blow . . .

.  
.  
.

Luke Wilkinson woke up screaming.

The sound interrupted as he struggled to breathe through the fear, his lungs empty, his chest tight with anxiety. Heart pounding against his rib cage. A slow intake of breath, more difficult than it should be, his chest still tight, the anxiety in control.

‘You’re okay, Luke. You’re safe.’

A woman’s voice, a soft touch as thin fingers, a small hand wrapped around his left hand. He flinched, tried to pull away as he continued to struggle for each breath.

‘Slow deep breaths, Luke. Breath slowly.’

He could hear a woman screaming, a dull background noise, the sound echoing through his skull, vibrating through his limbs. He could feel his body trembling. He tried to move, to shift his body, create distance. He needed to move, to escape. 

Body still restrained; he could do nothing. He could feel the rope around his wrists, his ankles. Could feel something soft beneath his back . . .

‘Luke, you’re safe now. You’re okay.’

The screaming diminished, retreating further into the background, now an irritating whisper. 

Replaced by the screams of a young child. 

A young boy calling for his mother. His father. Screaming. Deep sobbing breaths. Voice hoarse as he begged for his life, an explanation given, the man in the clown mask explaining what he wanted, what he expected.

Beg for your life.

Luke Wilkinson screamed. A sound full of anger and frustration. Of desperation. A need to help even though he couldn’t. 

He felt helpless. 

Vulnerable.

He felt angry.

A wave of lethargy moved over him. His body felt heavy. He felt tired, the weight of exhaustion pulling him down, sending him back into a world of darkness and nightmares.

.  
.  
.

A slow return to consciousness.

With a sharp intake of breath, Luke Wilkinson opened his eyes.

A white ceiling above him. Clean. Pristine. A steady, persistent sound of beeping in the background.

He frowned, confusion filling his mind.

Closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. 

He felt numb, his pain reduced.

‘Luke?’

The voice familiar, Luke turned his head to left and opened his eyes.

Ellie.

Turned his head back, gaze searching the ceiling. It felt like a memory. A nightmare. Knew it had been real. All of it. Closed his eyes when the screaming began, the sound a part of his memory. It belonged in the past, the screams living in the present, another form of torture with no end in sight. A continuous drain on his emotional state, his mind fatigued as he fought to keep his sanity.

He could see the man in the clown mask.

Swallowed down the fear rising into his throat, a solid lump of pain forcing its way through his chest, into his throat. His breathing became short, rapid . . . the beeping sound in the background became erratic. Now aware of the heart monitor, he slowed his breathing. 

‘Slow, deep breaths, Luke,’ said Ellie as she squeezed his hand. ‘It will help.’

Long, deep breaths. It did help. It helped his ability to breath. It didn’t help with the fear, the memories . . . the sound of screaming. The heart monitor stabilised, the beeping steady, a persistent sound.

‘You’re okay,’ said Ellie. ‘You’re safe now.’

The screaming continued. 

Opened his eyes. The ceiling still white. Still clean.

It was over.

He was still alive. 

He was safe.

How did they find him? 

He didn’t want to know. 

Not now. 

Not yet. 

He would wait until the screaming stopped.

He knew they would ask questions. They would want him to give a statement. Tell them what had happened. Talk to a psychiatrist . . . or Ellie.

He wasn’t going to answer their questions. He wasn’t going to talk to anyone.

Not now.

Not yet.

He would wait until the screaming stopped.

  
  
  
The End.


End file.
